Rotten
by brandysauce
Summary: A Clockwork Orange" ficcy. Alex encounters bulimia and empathy; who knew?
1. Intro

Okay, first the disclaimer; obviously I claim nothing but the idea of Alex finding two bulimic girls. The rest belongs to Anthony Burgess and Stanley Kubrick.  
Clearly this is set slightly before any of the events of the book or movie, but not too long before. Also, this is sort of a cross between bookverse and movieverse. Basically, the costuming is movie and the rest is book.  
Lastly, I would like to send out to anyone who themselves suffer any type of eating disorder, or knows someone struggling, my deepest sympathies. I hope this can be construed not as an attack or bias against EDs, but simply as the reflections of someone who has been there herself, and only wishes the best for fellow hosts of disorders. And I pray this isn't triggering, but use your own best judgment on that, please. 


	2. Rotten

In the Korova, with the same old sights to viddy, same old crappy starry music to slooshy, same old Dim chuckling away for some gloopy reason, same old droogy bantering between Georgie and Pete...and me, growing weary of it all. On the pretense of needing a mirror to check my hair and makeup (I felt like a real devotchka, and the others smecked, but yarbles to them) I slipped off to the back of the mesto, on the way passing the girls' toilet, where one could sloosh all the little bulimic ptitsas wrenching their guts out with their vonny fingers. One poor emaciated thing lay in a fetal position just outside the door, whimpering as krovvy seeped out of her rot, muddied with vomit and bile, congealing in her tangled hair.  
I stopped and stared, this being somehow far more terrible than any show of ultra-violence I had yet created. There came an awful retching and sobbing from behind the door, and another stumbled out, if possible even thinner than she on the floor, hair straggly and pinched, sunken litso dreadfully pale despite being flushed from the effort she had just made. She nearly tripped over the first ptitsa lying there, and the scene was almost comic in its horror. In some way these miserable devotchkas brought to mind the society my droogs and I exploited nightly. Normally a thought like that would have made me laugh, albeit in a bitter way (it being almost too sad not to laugh) but now it near had me wanting to cry or join the bulimics over the reeking toilets. And yet these girls were even worse than all that, as they knowingly and voluntarily murdered themselves most foully.  
Then the one on the floor sort of convulsed, a fresh spurt of krovvy slicking the floor, and the other, who was now leaning faintly against the wall, viddied in fear, dull eyes widening. Without really processing what I was doing, I bent and scooped up the ptitsa bleeding and coughing her life out, cradling her so that her gulliver rested on my pletcho; it was like holding a bird—she seemed not to weigh anything, and bones dug sharp against me. I took the wrist of the frightened one still standing, and led her back to where the others waited.  
My droogs gave me very puzzled looks, as I returned with one bleeding devotchka in my arms and another in tow, looking as if she were about to faint, but rather than bothering to explain I put the semi-conscious one into Dim's rookers and picked up the other before she fell. "Out," I said, quiet but hard, "Out and get an auto, skorry." They obeyed, still baffled, and we piled into the first vehicle we found large enough for the four of us with the ptitsas on Georgie and Dim's laps while I drove to the hospital, thinking hard.  
It was impossible to guess the ages of those two, their illness stripping away flesh and deforming them as it had, but one could still make out that at some point they must have been pretty. They were making terrible little noises in the back, and I drove as fast as I could, rookers clenched painfully on the wheel.  
The hospital was rather busy, thanks to all the gangs, so we sat and tried our best (everyone feeling awful and poogly for the ptitsas now, and asking no questions) to comfort them, though they were most likely beyond our reach at that time. Finally we were called up, I explained the story, and the girls were admitted. The others went home, to get out of their krovvy-soaked platties, but-compelled by something I didn't understand- I stayed, though bloodier than the other three combined, and huddled in a corner of the devotchkas' room with the nurse, peeting cup after tass after chasha of strong chai and not feeling a bit better.  
Close to midnight I stayed, viddying nurses putting tubes and IVs into those two, now both unconscious, and hooking up machines that beeped each time their feeble hearts skip-bumped. I stayed and watched and wondered what could have driven these ptitsas to do such things to themselves; question enough it is why I act as I do to others, but these pathetic young creatures to themselves, such unnatural and horrific veshches committed on their own persons? As I drifted somewhere between being asleep and awake I concluded that perhaps the sickness of society had infected them, collapsing in, blind and stumbling, given some weird drive to self-injure in an attempt at redemption. The rape and the dratsing, literal and figurative, that went on every minute now was embodied in the self-abuse they had become.  
I shuddered, all the chai I'd peeted threatening to slosh up in bitter waves; that was when I decided I'd best itty home, so I left hasty notes for the two and profuse thanks to the nurses before leaving for my own bed, where music was mournful and unsoothing, and sleep was filled with unpleasant sneeties. 


End file.
